Starfishers Volume 3: Stars End (4 page)

But starfish dared not get too near major gravitational or magnetic sources. Even the gravity of the larger harvestships felt to a starfish much as rheumatism to a human being.

They were terribly fragile creatures.

While Chub teased and enthused, Moyshe turned a part of his mind to his private universe again.

Red torpedoes idled along far away, across the pink river, against the galaxy.

“Yes,” Chub said. “Sharks. Survivors of Stars’ End called them here. They will attack. They starve. Another feast for the scavenger things.”

Smaller ghosts in a mix of colors shadowed both dragons and torpedoes. They were Chub’s scavengers.

The great slow ecology of the hydrogen streams had niches for creatures of most life-functions, though their definition in human terms was seldom more than an approximation. A convenient labeling.

Moyshe yielded to nervousness. Chub reached into his mind, calming him . . . 

“I’m learning, Chub. I can see the river this time. I can see the particle storm coming from the sick sun.”

“Very good, Moyshe man-friend. You relax now. Sharks come soon. You watch scavenger things instead. They tell when sharks can’t wait anymore. They get dancey.”

Moyshe laughed into his secret universe. Starfish believed in doing things with deliberation, as might be expected of creatures with vast life spans. Young starfish tended to be restless and excitable. They were prone to flutter impatiently in the presence of their elders. The Old Ones called it “getting dancey.”

Chub was dancey most of the time.

The Old Ones considered him the herd idiot. Chub said they regretted exposing him to human hasty-think while he was still young and impressionable.

“Is a joke, Moyshe man-friend. Is a good joke? Yes?”

“Yes. Very funny.” For a starfish. The Old Ones had to be the most phlegmatic, humorless, pragmatic intelligences in all creation. They couldn’t even grasp the concept of a joke. With the exception of Chub, benRabi found them a depressing mob.

“I was lucky to become your mind-mate, Chub. Very lucky.”

He meant it. He had linked with Old Ones. He compared it to making love to his grandmother bare-assed on an iceberg, with a crowd watching. Drawing Chub was the best thing that had happened to him in years.

“Yes. We half-wits stick together. Venceremos, Comrade Moyshe.”

BenRabi filled the universe with laughter. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“Your mind full of cobwebby memories, Moyshe man-friend. One time you play revolutionary on hard matter place called Dustball.”

“Yeah. I did. About two weeks. Then it was duck bullets all the way back to the Embassy.”

“You live much in few years, Moyshe man-friend. Ten times anyone else linked by starfish Chub. Many adventures. Think Chub would make good spy?”

“Who would you spy on?”

“Yes. Problem. Very difficult to disguise as shark.”

“That’s another joke, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You still spying, Moyshe man-friend?”

“Not anymore. I’m not Thomas McClennon anymore. I’m Moyshe benRabi. I’ve found me a home, Chub. These are my people now. You can’t spy on your own people.”

“Oh. Saw shadows in your mind. Thought maybe secret spy-stuff lurked. So. Hey! Maybe someday you go spy on hard matter place people? Be double spy.”

“Double agent?”

“Oh. Yes. That right words.”

“No more spying, Chub. I’m going to be a mindtech.”

“Dangerous.”

“So is spying. In more ways than you’ll ever understand.”

“Hurts-of-the-heart dangers, you mean?”

“I don’t know why they tell you you’re stupid. You’re a lot smarter in a lot of ways than most people I know. You see things without having to have them explained.”

“Helps, being starfish. People can’t look inside, Moyshe man-friend. You have to tell. You have to show. You not the kind of man to do that.”

“Yeah. Let’s talk about something else, huh?”

“Running out of talk time, Moyshe man-friend. Scavenger creatures getting dancey. You not paying attention?”

“I still haven’t got the hang of seeing everything at once.”

That was one of the beauties of the mindtech’s linked universe. He was not subject to the limitations of binocular vision. But he did have to unlearn its habits.

Blind people made better techs faster. They had no habits to unlearn, no preoccupations to overcome. But blind people who suffered from classical migraine were scarce.

Scarlet torpedoes edged toward the fleet. They were not yet wholly committed. Hunger still had not banished good sense.

Sharks were slow of wit, but they knew they had to get past the harvestships to reach their prey.

That was the whole point of the starfish-Starfisher alliance.

“Can’t visit anymore, Chub. We’re not going on mind-drive, so I’ll have to help fight.”

“Oh, yes, Moyshe man-friend. Shoot straight. I help, putting right vectors in your brain.”

“All right.” Aloud, into his helmet, benRabi said, “Gun Control.”

A second later his earphones crackled. “Gun Control, aye.”

“Mindtech. In link and free to assume control of a sector battery. Sharks will attack. Repeat, will attack.”

“Shit. All right, buddy. But never mind the sector battery. Master Gunner says he wants you to feed the main battle tank. Think you and your link can give us good realtime input?”

“Yes,” Chub murmured deep in benRabi’s hindbrain.

“Yes,” Moyshe said. And wondered why. It was not something he had ever tried.

“Monitor?”

“All go, Gun Control,” Clara’s voice interjected. “Green boards all across, I’ve just keyed the translator. You can bring the computer on-line whenever you’re ready.”

“Stand by for draw, Linker.”

“Moyshe,” said Clara, “don’t take any chances. Key out if it gets rough.”

“Drawing, Linker.”

For an instant benRabi felt as though some intangible vacuum were sucking his mind away. A smatter of panic quickly yielded to Chub’s soothing.

Moyshe relaxed, became a conduit. He became an almost disinterested observer.

The scavengers suddenly grew dancey with a vengeance.

“Attack imminent,” benRabi muttered.

Those pilot fish were excited because they would feast no matter what the outcome of battle. They would be perfectly content nibbling dead shark or dead starfish.

A dozen crimson torpedoes suddenly misted, stretched into long, fuzzy lines, and solidified again near the starfish herd.

A hundred swords of light started carving them into scavenger food. Sharks were easy meat for particle beams.

“Teach them to try end run through hyper,” Chub whispered.

The starfish herd had not bothered to dodge. They would not begin maneuvering till the protection of the human ships began breaking down.

It might not hold, benRabi reflected. Five vessels could not establish a sound fire pattern. There would be blind spots. Big holes. To fill them would mean risking hitting your own people.

The shark packs milled. They had not yet found workable tactics for assailing a fleet of harvestships.

Their intellectual slowness was the only hope for starfish and starfishers alike. Something had happened to the sharks. Their numbers were expanding almost exponentially. They were becoming ever more desperate in their quest for something to eat.

Their prey, historically, had been the stragglers of the great starfish herds. The feeble and injured and careless. But now they assaulted the strong and healthy as well, and had even begun turning on their own injured. Even the firepower of a harvestship could not hold the massed packs at bay when hunger heterodyned into a berserk killing rage.

“Not look so promising as you thought, Moyshe man-friend. All going to come at once, from everywhere, crazy. Just killing and dying.”

There was dread in Chub’s thought. Moyshe was dismayed. Even in the hell that had been the battle at Stars’ End the starfish had not lost his good cheer.

The starfish’s prediction proved correct. The red torpedoes suddenly exploded in every direction. Moyshe had seen the same reaction among humans. The first had been by a band of fair-weather revolutionaries who had heard the police were coming. Another time, a terrorist had lobbed a hand grenade into a crowded theatre.

But the sharks were not fleeing. The instant-insanity had seized them. They were spreading out to attack.

They arrowed in on the harvestfleet. Laser and particle beam swords stabbed.

Danion’s
fire was deadly. The realtime simulation from the minds of a man and a starfish linked gave the weapons people a fractional second’s advantage over their brethren in ships relying on normal detection systems.

The shark wave rolled round
Danion
like a breaker around a granite promontory.

They could have worn her down in time, had they had the patience of the sea, and the sea’s resources for endlessly sending in another wave. They had hurt her bad at Stars’ End. It only took one shark getting through, with its multi-dimensional fires, to ravage a whole section of ship. But this horde was more limited in its numbers and more driven by hunger.

“Oh, Christ,” benRabi swore as an explosion ripped a huge chunk from a sister ship. A shark had gotten through there. The service ships, still evacuating
Jariel
and trying to plug the holes in the fire pattern, swarmed toward the fragment. Clouds of frozen water vapor boiled round it as atmosphere poured out.

A shark flung itself into the starfish herd.

The great night beasts were not defenseless. One burped a ball of the. nuclear fire that burned in its “gut,” flung it with Robin Hood accuracy. The shark perished in the fading flash of a hydrogen bomb.

One predator was gone. And one starfish was disarmed for hours. It took the creatures a long time to revitalize their internal fires.

BenRabi had seen the peaceable starfish use the same weapon against Sangaree raidships at Stars’ End.

“Fur is flying now, Moyshe man-friend.” Chub was straining for humor. “We doing all right, you and me. Maybe your Old Ones decide you not stupid after all.” Left unthought was Chub’s hope for the same reaction from his own Old Ones.

By way of support benRabi replied, “This is a new era, Chub. It’s going to take hastiness and danciness to survive.”

“Sharks coming again.”

Once more
Danion’s
weaponry scarred the long night. Moyshe wondered what some alien would think if he happened on its unconcealable mark, a thousand years from now, a thousand light-years away.

Both sides had used retrospective observation techniques during the Ulantonid War. A battle’s outcome might be fixed, but it could be studied over and over from every possible angle.

The second assault was more furious than the first. BenRabi stopped trying to think. He had to give his whole attention over to following the situation.

More sharks dropped hyper, drawn by no known means. The rage took them, too. They attacked everything, including wounded brethren floundering around the battle region.

This was the root of Chub’s fear. That more and more sharks would be drawn till they simply overwhelmed everything.

It was the future foreseen by both starfish and Starfishers. The terror that herd after herd and harvestship after harvestship would be consumed was the force that had driven the maverick commander of this fleet to hazard the defenses of Stars’ End.

The arrivals slowed to a trickle. Chub thought, “We going to win again, Moyshe man-friend. See the pattern? The glorious pattern. They waste their might devouring their own injured.”

BenRabi searched his kaleidoscopic mind-link universe. He saw nothing but chaos. This, he reflected, is the sort of thing Czyzewski was thinking about when he wrote
The Old God.
So much of Czyzewski’s poetry seemed reflective of recent events. Had the man been prescient?

No. He was far gone on stardust when he did the cycle including
The Old God.
The drug killed him less than a month after he finished the poem. The images were just the flaming madness of the drug burning through.

“Don’t you get tired of being right?” he asked when the first sharks fled.

“Never, Moyshe man-friend. But learned long ago to wait till event is certain, predestined, to make observation. Error is painful. The scorn of Old Ones is like the fire of a thousand stars.”

“I know the feeling.” For some reason the face of Admiral Beckhart, his one-time commander, drifted through his universe. Here on the galactic rim, fighting for his life against creatures he had not suspected existed two years earlier, his previous career seemed as remote as that of another man. Of another incarnation, or something he had read about.

The assault collapsed once the first few well-fed sharks fled.

The starfish had suffered far less than their inedible guardians. Not one dragon was missing from the golden herd defended by the harvestships. But another ship had been injured severely.

A traitorous thought stole across Moyshe’s mind on mouse-soft feet.

Chub was less indignant than he expected.

On a strictly pragmatic level, the starfish agreed that getting out of the interstellar rivers would be the best way to conserve Starfisher ships and lives.

“They’ll never go, Chub. The harvestfleets are their nations. Their homelands. They’re proud, stubborn people. They’ll keep fighting and hoping.”

“I know, Moyshe man-friend. It saddens the herd. And makes the Old Ones proud that they forged their alliance so well. But why do you say ‘they?’ ”

“We, then. Part of the time . . . 
Most
of the time I’m an outsider here. They do things differently than what I learned . . . ”

“Sometimes you miss your old life, Moyshe man-friend.”

“Sometimes. Not often, and not much, though. I’d better tend to business.” He had to focus his attention to force his physical voice to croak, “Gun Control, Mindlink. The sharks are going. They’ve given up. You can secure when the last leaves firing range.”

“You sure, Linker? Don’t look like it in the display tank.”

“I’m sure. Let me know when I can stop realtiming. This is my second link in eight hours.”